It’s been a while since I’ve posted on here. My family and I live in Montana, and make the pilgrimage to Reno every year my flying schedule allows to enjoy the magic that is Stead. I knew my boys enjoyed going down there, but didn’t really have an inkling of just how much it meant until I read this poem my now-18-year-old oldest wrote about it. Thought y’all would appreciate it as well:
~Mists of Stead~
I walk out onto the dew-soaked tarmac,
With drops of water sticking to my back.
Warm desert winds gently roll across the land,
Like a soft breath across the Nevada sand.
Cold air clashes with the heat from the hills,
Only now at the dawn will you feel its chill.
Drops on the brush will soon return to the air
And the sun will rise in a brilliant glare.
Soon the soil will crack and dry
As the round heat rises into the sky.
This is a holy place for a different breed.
Over in the distance, is the Valley of Speed.
I look up at the mighty tower,
Its doors locked, its lights without power.
I see all the empty stands and seats,
Free from the stomping of cheering feet.
The runway is quiet today,
A mere whisper of where planes come to play.
It still smells of smoke and fires,
And shows the black streaks from rubber tires.
This is where legends stand,
In the quiet skies above the desert sand.
This is where they clash and turn,
Where props howl and jets burn.
Where they risk it all for the chance to win.
Like Voodoo’s famous purple, green, and yellow skin,
Strega with her polished red and white,
The twin props of Metal’s Griffon might,
Miss A’s stripes of Red, White, and Blue,
And that Rare Bear’s unmistakable hues,
The powerful Dreadnaught at number eight,
All proudly carry on the names of the greats.
The most remembered being old number four,
Faster than any who had come before.
Forever in the lead is that flash of Red,
Over the small desert field of Stead.
And I forever can see in the sky,
A streak of sliver speeding by.
One who never returned to the land,
But the stories she left were most grand.
She left this world as a pillar of flame,
But still on the course her spirit remains.
A number 177 marks her side,
A Galloping Ghost’s forever ride.
It has always been my greatest fear,
That one day all this will disappear.
That the mighty steeds might never come,
That they’ll be denied their chance to run.
The air will lose the smell of smoke,
And be consumed by desert’s greedy cloak.
The fight begins to keep the pylons high,
To continue the racer’s fiercely proud cry.
For eleven months it’s a calm blue sky,
For one week, see the streaks flash by.
As soon as the words are heard over the base,
The timeless saying, “Gentlemen, You have a Race!”
The plane in the lead roars down the chute,
The ones in trail all follow suit.
Blink and you’ll miss them speed around,
The valley echoes with unforgettable sound.
Of the mighty engine’s powerful roar,
Just 50 feet off the desert floor.
The pilot’s straining to remember the cost,
Knowing in an instant, all could be lost.
Speeding across the Nevada waste,
All striving for that first place.
Battling as crowds watch on in wonder,
Listening to that beautiful sound of September Thunder.
But for now, the skies are clear,
The quiet wind is all I hear.
With the occasional Cessna’s gentle hum,
To hint at what it will become.
Now the great steeds are all sleeping,
Tired wings stored for safekeeping.
Letting their engines sit and go cold,
Until it’s their time to race for gold.
As I walk past the chain link fence,
My sorrow and longing to dispense.
Above the chirping of the birds,
A faint echo can still be heard.
I hear the announcer’s excited cry,
And the crowd’s cheers lift to the sky.
But they all are suddenly dimmed,
By a chorus of pistons over the wind.
I turn and focus my pointed gaze,
The shapes appear through the morning haze.
Chrome skinned frames in the bright sunshine,
A group of 51’s and Furies idling on the line.
I could name every plane in this set,
One of the greatest sights eyes ever met.
But as the light chases away the shade,
The spinning props slowly fade.
Even though I see nothing now,
I can still hear it somehow.
The roar of engines overhead,
As I walk through the mists of Stead.
The sky is a sea of red and yellow light,
Knowing that when the time is right.
It will hear the rumble of a plane on the roll,
And be graced by the sound of the dawn patrol.
~Zach Boyd~
~Mists of Stead~
I walk out onto the dew-soaked tarmac,
With drops of water sticking to my back.
Warm desert winds gently roll across the land,
Like a soft breath across the Nevada sand.
Cold air clashes with the heat from the hills,
Only now at the dawn will you feel its chill.
Drops on the brush will soon return to the air
And the sun will rise in a brilliant glare.
Soon the soil will crack and dry
As the round heat rises into the sky.
This is a holy place for a different breed.
Over in the distance, is the Valley of Speed.
I look up at the mighty tower,
Its doors locked, its lights without power.
I see all the empty stands and seats,
Free from the stomping of cheering feet.
The runway is quiet today,
A mere whisper of where planes come to play.
It still smells of smoke and fires,
And shows the black streaks from rubber tires.
This is where legends stand,
In the quiet skies above the desert sand.
This is where they clash and turn,
Where props howl and jets burn.
Where they risk it all for the chance to win.
Like Voodoo’s famous purple, green, and yellow skin,
Strega with her polished red and white,
The twin props of Metal’s Griffon might,
Miss A’s stripes of Red, White, and Blue,
And that Rare Bear’s unmistakable hues,
The powerful Dreadnaught at number eight,
All proudly carry on the names of the greats.
The most remembered being old number four,
Faster than any who had come before.
Forever in the lead is that flash of Red,
Over the small desert field of Stead.
And I forever can see in the sky,
A streak of sliver speeding by.
One who never returned to the land,
But the stories she left were most grand.
She left this world as a pillar of flame,
But still on the course her spirit remains.
A number 177 marks her side,
A Galloping Ghost’s forever ride.
It has always been my greatest fear,
That one day all this will disappear.
That the mighty steeds might never come,
That they’ll be denied their chance to run.
The air will lose the smell of smoke,
And be consumed by desert’s greedy cloak.
The fight begins to keep the pylons high,
To continue the racer’s fiercely proud cry.
For eleven months it’s a calm blue sky,
For one week, see the streaks flash by.
As soon as the words are heard over the base,
The timeless saying, “Gentlemen, You have a Race!”
The plane in the lead roars down the chute,
The ones in trail all follow suit.
Blink and you’ll miss them speed around,
The valley echoes with unforgettable sound.
Of the mighty engine’s powerful roar,
Just 50 feet off the desert floor.
The pilot’s straining to remember the cost,
Knowing in an instant, all could be lost.
Speeding across the Nevada waste,
All striving for that first place.
Battling as crowds watch on in wonder,
Listening to that beautiful sound of September Thunder.
But for now, the skies are clear,
The quiet wind is all I hear.
With the occasional Cessna’s gentle hum,
To hint at what it will become.
Now the great steeds are all sleeping,
Tired wings stored for safekeeping.
Letting their engines sit and go cold,
Until it’s their time to race for gold.
As I walk past the chain link fence,
My sorrow and longing to dispense.
Above the chirping of the birds,
A faint echo can still be heard.
I hear the announcer’s excited cry,
And the crowd’s cheers lift to the sky.
But they all are suddenly dimmed,
By a chorus of pistons over the wind.
I turn and focus my pointed gaze,
The shapes appear through the morning haze.
Chrome skinned frames in the bright sunshine,
A group of 51’s and Furies idling on the line.
I could name every plane in this set,
One of the greatest sights eyes ever met.
But as the light chases away the shade,
The spinning props slowly fade.
Even though I see nothing now,
I can still hear it somehow.
The roar of engines overhead,
As I walk through the mists of Stead.
The sky is a sea of red and yellow light,
Knowing that when the time is right.
It will hear the rumble of a plane on the roll,
And be graced by the sound of the dawn patrol.
~Zach Boyd~
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